


By Seasons Divided

by summoner_yuna_of_besaid



Category: Final Fantasy XII
Genre: Angst, F/F, Femslash, Femslash February
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-03
Updated: 2013-02-06
Packaged: 2017-11-28 02:44:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,315
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/669340
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/summoner_yuna_of_besaid/pseuds/summoner_yuna_of_besaid
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Years pass, seasons pass, Fran remains the same, yet her hume friends begin to wither away.  Even as Fran struggles to stay with and keep hold of her mortal loved ones for as long as possible, she finds herself fighting a losing battle.  She is cupping water in her hands, only for it all to slip through her fingers.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Balthier’s death came upon midday.

Fran knew she should not be so torn up over it. It was suitably noble and heroic for him, came late in his bawdy, adventurous life. Songs could be sung of it, if there were anyone there to write them. Fran was there, but the wound of his loss was still too new to consider poetry in light of it.

They’d been on another treasure hunt, same as any before, but Balthier was not as spry or limber as he’d once been. Many times Fran had tried to convince him of the idea of retirement, of settling somewhere to relax beside the ocean tide. He wouldn’t have been Balthier if he’d agreed, of course.

Fran, please, he’d chided and taken a sip of his whiskey, and that was that.

Perhaps he’d realized that the death which was always on his heels and just barely avoided would catch up with him, and perhaps he didn’t care. Though he had pretended not to mind his age, Fran had seen him: running a hand through his hair and staring as strands of it were left upon his hand, greyed and colorless; eyeing his wrinkling face forlornly in the mirror.

He’d continued carrying on as if he were five and twenty and not five and forty, but it could not – did not – last. In the aftermath, Fran was left adrift, all their treasure and she had no use for it, a ship for pirating and no desire to go anywhere, and a bed still unmade from when last they’d laid in it, long since gone cold.

Fran left it all behind her; shed her old life like a worn cloak. She took with her weapons and armor, what she needed to survive, and the brightly colored rings Balthier had always worn, still stained with his blood.

\----------------------------------

For a time she wandered.

Ivalice was a wide world, and even in all her traveling she had not seen all of it. So she went about seeing more of it; traveled across borders and through ancient woods, to the capitals of far-flung countries. Fran had adventures of her own, shed blood, saved and took lives, and came away perhaps richer than she’d ever been before.

She lived a life close to what she’d lived with Balthier, but it was empty anyhow. 

So, after two years, she abandoned her adventuring gear and her treasures, and after a great deal of hedging, made for Rabanastre.

\----------------------------------

 

The city was much changed from when last Fran had been there.

Many decades had passed since Ashelia B’Nargin of Dalmasca had ascended the throne, and Rabanastre (and the greater country) had begun to thrive. Armed soldiers no longer patrolled the streets; the people were no longer forced underground for want of money. The markets were lively, the streets full of citizens and visitors from near and far, especially from that once-enemy of Arcadia.

Fran considered approaching the princess, of seeing Ashe again. Surely a queen was always in need of more guards, particularly one of such knowledge and power as Fran, in addition to being a friend? Yet, Fran stood beneath the arches of the castle gates and realized her return would be followed with sour news. The face of her friend, twisted in suffering brought from her lips. Ashe had been so fond of Balthier. Fear quaked the viera’s stomach and so she turned away and disappeared into anonymity in the crowd. 

But she didn’t leave Rabanastre and its familiar, comforting streets, streets which were home to Vaan, Penelo, Ashe, and Basch at some time, which so much had been sacrificed for. The city was greatest achievement of her and Balthier’s great adventures, proof that her beloved pirate had done some good in the world before fading into legend. Fran stayed.

She earned a living off the quest boards, drifted through the underground which had once been the slums, stayed hidden in the crowds which were so diverse and thick that even a viera with such an outstanding look could easily hide.

“Fran! Fran!”

But not so easily hidden from the discerning eyes of a friend.

Fran turned; the figure striding across the market towards her was both strange and familiar. She had the form of one who’d once been starving thin and had since built up weight and muscle, yet could never escape the deprivation of those hungry years. Long blonde braids came out of either side of her head, and a friendly smile lit up her face. It was a ghost from the past, all grown up to some thirty plus years.

“Fran, it’s so good to see you!” Penelo beamed as she approached. “It’s been such a long time.” Last she’d been to see her friends in Rabanastre, Balthier had been alive. “How’ve you been?”

Fran’s eyes darted over the younger face, over the scar which now tore the woman’s bare shoulder, still fiercely red. Opening her mouth to speak seemed impossible; terror stilled her tongue. What would she say? Hello old friend, Balthier is dead?

Nothing needed to be said. Penelo’s knowing eyes looked over her once-companion and then she nodded away, towards the exit. Fran required no further prompting to follow.

\-------------------------------

Fran found it odd, at first, to find that Penelo alone lived in her small apartment, a broad two level with wide open windows, laden with carpets and pillows. The two friends sat upon these after Penelo poured them both glasses of tea.

“I did stay with Vaan for a time,” Penelo explained when asked. “After a while though, it felt like I wasn’t living my life, but somebody else’s, y’know?”

Fran did not. Working with Balthier had been living a dual life, a symbiotic life whose ending had left Fran wanting.

“So I decided to come back home and find my own way.” Penelo continued, shrugging reflexively as she gazed around the room. “It’s not much, but it’s something.”

They lapsed into quietude, seemingly peaceful if one went by looks; but inside, Fran’s tumultuous heart pounded, and her grip on her tea cup tightened.

Penelo caught the movement, and her eyes lingered on Fran’s fingers and widened.

“He’s gone, isn’t he?”

Fran’s eyes lowered to the rings which fit loosely around her fingers. Her silence was affirmation enough.

\---------------------------------

Somehow Fran could not bring herself to leave.

One morning waking by Penelo’s hearth became two became three. Each day she came out of restless sleep to the smell of incense and the Rabanastre sunrise filtered through sheer, shimmering curtains.

Penelo had found her calling in the conquering of the beasts which called the wilds surrounding the city home. She was talented; the demure young woman who had only agreed to Ashe’s quest to follow Vaan had been replaced by a seasoned swordswoman. 

Fran could remember the early battles, when Penelo’s youth and inexperience had been fresh; days spent discussing battle, the weapons of war, how to shield oneself from fire spells, how to bind a broken limb. She took to it, but reluctantly, skilled yet not desiring the need for such skills.

That reluctance had evaporated in the twenty years since. When Fran and Penelo took on quests and went out in search of their targets, the hume vibrated with energy, eager for the fight to begin, and exhilarated when it ended. The passion with which the woman had befriended so many before had been poured into her fighting style.

It was easy to fall into a routine with one she already knew so well, and so the next few weeks passed. Fran stayed with Penelo, earning her keep by assisting in hunts across the lands. Not unlike her questing after Balthier’s death, but made better by the company. What livelihood had been unfulfilling before became enjoyable to the fullest.

\---------------------------------------

 

When first they kissed, it seemed a wonderful accident.

They’d just completed a harsh, lengthy quest through the Giza Plains, in the wet season, taking on a great tortoise which had vexed the natives.

Many hours of hunting and combat finally gave way to victory; Penelo, enthused, had given a joyful shout and leapt skyward, bloody fists raised, before turning to Fran. A big grin brightened her face, she pounced, and their lips met clumsily beneath the dark clouds drenching them.

But “accidents”, by definition, are random and unlikely to, if ever, be repeated. The “accident” on the wetlands occurred twice more in the next few weeks: once during a drunken revel in the tavern, when Penelo’s willingness could be explained by drink, but not Fran’s; and again one evening just before bed, a sweet goodnight kiss upon the viera’s cheek, the meaning of which could not be misconstrued.

It would be false for her to say she did not want these touches; but at the same time, Fran found it hard to invite them. Was it hard hearted, for her to have moved on so quickly? A hume would consider three years passed as quite a while, but to a viera, such a time was infinitesimal. 

The wound of Balthier’s grave upon her heart was still bleeding and here she was, practically courting the girl who’d once swooned over the pirate’s handkerchief.

\---------------------------------

“You seem upset.”

Late night had descended upon Rabanastre; lanterns, string tied to posts and floating above the winding pathways through the city’s streets. Fran and Penelo sat upon the window sill, blanketed by the scent of roast mutton and garlic wafting up from the restaurants serving dinner down the street. 

Penelo, relaxed against the pillows, had her hair down against her shoulders and was eyeing Fran carefully. The viera glanced away; she looked out onto the crowds below, watching the lanterns sway with the wind.

“Are you happy here?” The hume spoke slowly, nervously, licking her lips after. Fran glanced back up.

“I am.” She stated firmly. “It is only…” I should not be. I should not have moved on so quickly.

“Only what?” Penelo smiled a little, relieved by Fran’s strong affirmation. “Is it the place? You could buy your own apartment now, I’m sure. We’ve earned quite a bit in hunts these last weeks.”

They had. Fran could buy an apartment suited to her needs three times over; yet, leaving the shared space with Penelo hurt, and that was the source of her ire, that fondness she should not feel.

Once, in her youth, she had learned the folly of trying to deny her heart. She had stood upon the borders of the Wood, staring out into the great world with wonder, returning home every day with a heart bruised by denied desire. In time, she’d come to see that resigning herself to the wants of others only hurt her and hurt those around her as they were forced to watch her slip away into somber silence. So she listened to her own desires and left.

Here she was again, attempting to forsake the fervor in her veins for propriety, for the sake of appearance, when all she wanted was just before her, offering to be hers.

Fran thought through these things quickly, before raising her head to meet Penelo’s gaze. “Only, I wonder why we waste the hours here, when the night is so pleasant.”

Penelo’s eyebrows shot up. “Oh?”

“It is a night of revelry.” Fran continued. “Why should we sit inside and pass it by?”

“I… did not think you would be interested.” Penelo shrugged and looked away, color rising to her cheeks. “But… if you are willing?”

“I am.”

Her face brightened, she grinned, and leapt to her feet. “Then let’s go, before we waste the whole night away!” She extended a hand to Fran, and the viera hesitated for just a moment, before she reached out and took hold of it tightly.

\---------------------------

Months became a year and time seemed to pass more quickly than it ever had before.

Fran did not move to her own apartment; together, they bought a new place, large enough for the both of them, and split the cost between them. It was a splendid place with a view over the plaza in front of the palace, warmly colored and infused with the feeling of ‘home’, even before they’d put a single piece of furniture down.

“This’ll be great,” Penelo chirped the night they brought their things in. “Just wait. It won’t be long before we’re spending nights drinking with Ashe in the palace and inviting her over for tea!”

Fran had doubted it; friend or not, the princess (soon-to-be queen, and married) would have time to entertain friends in her home, let alone leave to go to a simple commoner’s dwelling. She should have known, the moment she had the thought, that Ashe would surprise her; the woman was good at that.

The second week they were in their new home, Ashe called upon them, appearing at the door of their apartment alone, hooded, with a sword at her belt. Penelo squealed when she opened the door and leapt on the woman, and startled Fran so that she ran in from the other room.

The sight of Ashe’s smiling face relieved her immediately, and she stood back from the two to examine the former royal on the run. She’d grown, in weight and height; where she’d been thin and girlish before, she’d truly taken on a woman’s form, with broad hips and a larger waist. The benefits of not being constantly hiding and going without, surely. Her face had grown rounder, her look less harsh but not less fierce. Though she was not formally dressed, she still looked fine in a long crimson gown, with a silver brocade on the shoulder of her cloak.

“It is good to see you both,” Ashe smiled, sitting upon the sette. Fran sat across from her, still examining the strangeness of a familiar face looking so different, as Penelo fetched them tea from the kitchen. No matter how many years she spent among humes, she would never be used to how easily the shift of time changed them, how ten years could make of a hume a completely different, unrecognizable person.

“Thank you,” The princess smiled as Penelo held the tea cup to her. She took a seat by Fran and handed the viera her tea herself; Fran caught Ashe’s eyes watching them intently, her smile becoming something of a smirk. 

“How are you?” Penelo asked. “It’s been forever since we’ve talked or even traded letters.”

“I am sorry,” Ashe sighed. “Your latest letter sits, open, upon my desk, and I have read it but not been given the chance to sit and reply to it.”

“Don’t worry I’m sure you have much more important things to attend to.”

“More urgent things, but not more important.” Penelo flushed, and Ashe grinned at the sight. “How are you Fran? It’s been much longer since we’ve spoken; perhaps before my coronation.”

“I apologize for my distance. There has been… much happening, and my mind has been too clouded to think to write.”

Ashe glanced away, a finger running along the edge of the tea cup. “I am sorry about Balthier.”

Fran gave a slow nod; Penelo’s eyes widened. “You knew.”

“I am head of what has become a prominent country,” Ashe explained. “There is little that I do not know.”

Penelo seemed slightly unnerved, giving a shy shrug in reply. They fell silent, and for many minutes, it seemed the spectre that stood between them would keep them quiet forever.

“I’ve heard you’ve been busy.” Penelo finally said. She giggled half-heartedly, attempting humor but afraid to do so, but she needn’t of have been afraid. Ashe responded in kind. 

She cocked an eyebrow and smirked. “Oh you have?” She replied after taking a sip of her tea. “This is lovely, by the way. The rumors about my trip to Rozarria, at least those concerning my betrothal, are true.”

Penelo squealed, bouncing in her seat, and a little of Fran’s tea spilled onto her leg. “Then you are to marry Al-Cid?” Fran remembered the flirty, debauched royal, and could not remember him without being reminded of Balthier’s ire towards him, his irritation with losing the limelight to such a supposed cad. The memories were distant enough that they did not sting anymore, they merely ached.

Ashe nodded. “I am.” She was not enthused; but she did not seem resigned either. It was a state of acceptance without excitement. “I came tonight hoping you might attend the wedding.”

“Oh, yes, certainly!” Penelo cheered, leaning into Fran, her hand reaching out and grasping the taller woman’s arm. Then she stiffened; she turned to face Fran. “That is, if you want to go?”

Fran stared down into those hopeful bright eyes and wondered when they had come to this, to accepting and declining invitations as a couple, not as individuals. It was frightening – and warmed her heart and made her dizzy. 

“I would be honored.”

\----------------------------------

The next few months were a blur as the rather ordinary – though violent – lives of the two women became intertwined with the royal’s busy schedule. Ashe had given them free run of the palace, the ability to come and visit whenever they chose, and had turned to them for advice on many aspects of the wedding.

Of course, there were those who opposed the union, for a vast many reasons, and there were those who acted upon their disapproval. The first time someone attacked the princess in retaliation for what they saw as “surrendering to the enemy”, or as a dilution of the blood line of Dynast King, it was only Fran and Penelo’s timely intervention which kept her alive; which was how the two went from being hunters to royal guards.

Many months later, they rode alongside the bride to be in her airship, on their way to Rozarria for the big day.

“Do not be fooled by the romanticism of the populace,” Ashe had told them on their way to the ship. “This is a political merger only.”

“Does Al-Cid know?”

“Yes, he knows.” Ashe replied. They were walking along the streets of Rabanastre in a fashion Fran had never done, surrounded by soldiers and servants who were at Ashe’s beck and call. She was dressed finely in warmly colored silks, with a sheer red scarf weaved through her braided hair, trailing down behind her. “It was my first condition. When the wedding is done, I shall return to my home, and he to his and our meetings will be few and far between.”

“A loveless marriage.” Penelo mourned softly. “Are you sure that’s what you want?”

Ashe smiled indulgently. “What I want is peace and stability for Dalmasca, and if marriage to a kind hearted, well-meaning imbecile will do so, then I shall marry him.”

Fran glanced at Ashe’s face as her eyes went skyward, wistful. Fran did not think the marriage was what she really desired; but perhaps she was fonder of Al-Cid than she would admit.

They boarded the ship, and Fran and Penelo were permitted to remain with the Princess for a few hours more. Penelo was besides herself; traveling on a premium airship as a guest of the Princess, to visit monarchs in a far distant land? It was every fairy tale dream come true, and it gave Penelo a dreamy smile that made Fran smile to see it.

That night, they said their goodbyes and left the Princess to sleep, going to their own chambers. They were led to one shared room, which had only one bed.

Penelo blushed; Fran did not display it, but inside her stomach curled and twisted into notes. A nervous laugh broke the silence. 

“I suppose we gave them an impression.” Fran began. Penelo’s head shot up. 

“The wrong impression?” She asked. 

After a moment, Fran shook her head. “I think not.”

They shared a bed for the first time that night; all they did was sleep, and it was the best rest Fran had had in three years.

\---------------------------

The wedding was a marvel. 

It was held inside the Rozarrian palace, a place which had seen little use in the past few decades as the military industrial complex took control, but as the Margraces slowly and surely took back their political power, the palace became a place of meaning again. It was twice the size of Rabanastre’s, with great spires piercing the sky, made of stone which had been worn and weathered by time, but still stood after so long since its construction.

Inside, the palace had been decorated according to the princess’s desires. Dalmascan flowers made up the bouquets which were arranged on every table, and the desert’s hues were the colors of the table cloths, the curtains, the glittering gems which decorated the fine furniture. 

Ashe herself was a goddess in scarlet and gold, her hair piled on top of her head, her face hidden by a sheer scarf. The husband was not so bad himself, though his colors were more subdued, they did compliment his bride’s.

The ceremony began; Fran and Penelo took their places on the left of the altar, awaiting the bride’s entrance. As the soft flutes and winds began to play, Ashe passed through the curtain into the hall, and all eyes turned to her.

On her arm was Basch; the Arcadian royalty had been invited out of both courtesy, and in Ashe’s case, genuine friendship. Larsa, who had sprung up quite a few feet in the years they’d been apart, sat in the front row in his best finery.

“He looks great,” Penelo leaned over and whispered to Fran, eyeing Basch. He did indeed. His blonde hair was now a light grey, which only served to make him look august and distinguished; his face had grown gaunt, the signs of age becoming hard lines across his cheeks and forehead, but his warm smile softened the harsh visage. 

Basch’s eyes darted across the room and met theirs, and his smile grew; but then, they drifted upward, above the duo, and widened. Basch’s hand leapt to his sword and a fierce look came over his face. “Princess - !”

Fran was spinning even as she saw Basch’s brow furrow; she knew the signs of wariness on his face. But it was too late – the thunder of a gun split the air and screams soon followed. Fran tore across the room to where her bow lay against the wall; she had it strung and aimed skyward in an instant.

It wasn’t necessary. Penelo ran up behind her, looking into the rafters as she was, and both saw at the same time the assailant receiving a knife to the throat, held in hand by a blond young man in a white shirt.

He looked up; immediately his identity was clear, but there was no time for happy reunions. Fran spun on her heel and raced across the room.

Ashe was on her knees, cradling Basch’s head in her lap, hands and gown drenched in blood. The bullet had hit the soldier in his arm where he’d reached out to push Ashe away. Fran fell to her knees beside him; hands gently probed the wounded area, taking in the sight with a dull sense of horror suppressed by need.

“We must have a surgeon – now!” She shouted, and one of the servants dashed away. Al-Cid was at Fran’s side in the next moment.

“Oh, Basch, don’t do this!” Ashe was not crying, but it was a near thing. “Don’t die for me!”

“The wound is not fatal, so long as we stop the bleeding.” Al-Cid replied. He tore his coat off and pressed it against the wound, wincing as Basch let out a strangled cry. “But… such a wound…” He trailed away reluctantly.

Basch gave a weak laugh, lidded eyes darting to the royal. “You need not spare me. I realize t – the implications…”

“What’s he talking about?” Penelo came to Fran’s side, holding her sword in hand.

“The bullet shattered the joint in his right arm.” Fran spoke slowly, evenly, as repressed anger and fear rose in her chest. Realization dawned on the younger’s face.

“Fret not, Penelo.” Basch coughed.

“Quiet, rest now!” Ashe brushed a shaking hand through his hair as she spoke.

“I – I would gladly give, a thousand times over, m – my sword arm for my Queen.”

“Basch, please…”

They took him to the surgeon’s soon after; and the ceremony was finished then and there, with blood dripping down the Queen’s front.

“I will not let them win.” She muttered viciously as they awaited the priest’s return. “Foolish, arrogant men whose dreams of a free Dalmascan are mired in selfishness and ethnic purity shall not stop me!”

Al-Cid, wearing the jacket which had stemmed Basch’s blood flow and was now wrinkled and red, smiled. “On that, we agree.”

Ashe smiled in return.

\--------------------------------

 

If Basch had been a younger man, he may have found recovering from the wound slightly easier. As it was, arthritis had already begun to set in before, and the shattered bone and muscle tissue would not heal so easily. 

“Tis not so bad,” Basch told them, resting in his hospital bed. “I can retire with honor, and rest upon my laurels for the last years of my life.”

“They’d better be more than years,” the blond from the rafters insisted. “More like decades!”

Ashe smiled softly, and turned to the newcomer. “I do not remember inviting sky pirates to my wedding.”

Vaan grinned. “Yeah, but you invited Vaan. Though I figured a little discretion might be in order, just in case.”

Though she had recognized him easily, Fran still could hardly believe that the man standing before her had been the boy Balthier took under his wing more than twenty two years before. He had grown much taller and more muscular; his skin darkened from years traveling beneath the sun, with a scar running along his right cheek. His long hair had darkened as well, to a light brown with blond highlights, and it ran down to his shoulders and was pulled into a ponytail. Looking at him, it was hard not to remember Balthier. The hume had taken to dressing like him, with a white button up shirt and a vest over it, and black armored leggings tucked into boots. 

“It’s good to see you, Fran,” He said to her later in the hall, somewhat awkwardly. Shuffling his feet, the man chuckled softly and turned away. “So, where’s Balthier? Was he too miffed at not being the bridegroom that he didn’t show?”

Choked by the words, Fran let her eyes fall to the ground. “… he is gone.”

Vaan glanced back at her, mouth going slack. “What?”

“Dead, three years hence.” Fran met his gaze and saw utter ruin in the young man’s eyes.

Vaan crossed his arms and glanced down. When he spoke his voice was hoarse. “How’d it happen?”

“How it always happens.” Fran spat back, feeling a flicker of fire in her gut. “Disease, weakness of age, the frailty of your hume bodies, the reckless abandon with which you live your short lives!” Hissing, Fran turned and paced angrily through the hall. “Forever chasing daydreams and adventure and laughing when your enemies finally catch up to you!”

“Is that how he died?” Vaan asked quietly. “Laughing?”

The anger fled her all of the sudden, deflated in an instant like a popped balloon. “Yes. He died laughing.”


	2. Chapter 2

“Balthier, no!”

The man was smiling, laughing even, that sly twinkle in his eye still shining despite the blood dripping over his brow.

“Forget it, Fran.” He stated dryly, only a hint of stressed pain in his tone. “I’ve made up my mind.”

“What are you doing!?”

The tomb was on the offensive; the idiot pirates who’d followed them in had tripped the defenses. Doors were slamming shut, bridges retracting, halls caving in. They’d been running for their lives, treasure left behind, looking only for the way out.

“Jump, quickly!” Fran thrust her hand out over the divide, reaching towards Balthier who was growing steadily further and further away. She was on the ground just before the door, almost to freedom; having been shoved there by Balthier, knocked away just as the bridge began to pull away.

It was no good; the door behind the bridge had shut, and the stone was pulling into it and would soon leave nothing on which to stand. Each moment he delayed he came closer to his death.

“Fran,” His debonair smirk melted into something softer, fond. “You know better than to try and change my mind when it’s made up.”

“What are you…”

Her beloved, her companion, was of his own accord trapped on the receding bridge, still bleeding from the bullet wound in his chest, a gift of the pirates who’d chased them. Kneeling upon the ground, chest heaving from the attempt to breath, Balthier sent a haggard grin her way.

Wintry terror pierced her chest and stole the breath from her. “Balthier… Balthier, no!” She cried. “I can save you, please –“ She threw her hand out again.

He laughed and sputtered, and the action sent his life’s blood spilling over his lips. “If not now, when?” Shocked into silence, Fran listened with growing horror as he continued. “When age and time have stolen my purpose and reason? Shall I wither away in a hospice bed, already dead but for the slow beating of my pulse? Or perhaps whiling away the last years of my life in maddening revelry, until I grow so obsessed with my own end I rise up to tear down the sky in my misery?”

“You are not your father.”

“Am I – am I not?” Something fragile made it into his eyes, the flicker of upward movement in his pale lips. “And what would I do, with the age of fifty just round the corner for me, the age when Dr. Cid began bargaining with gods and mumbling to himself in dark laboratories. What will I do? I imagine, you could save me.” He admitted. “Whisk me away to a healer, save my life but not repair it to strength.”

“So this is it.” Fran mumbled quietly as her long nailed fingers clenched and cut into the skin of her palms. “For fear of losing the life of a pirate, you choose to die as one.”

“Fitting, isn’t it?” He laughed again, hollowly. “You’ve always said my mulish temper would get me killed.”

“I meant it as warning, not prophecy!”

Balthier’s eyes darted down; Fran followed the motion, and somehow the fear she’d been feeling managed to heighten infinitely. “Balthier – please, jump to me!”

There was less than a foot left of stone, and perhaps not even leaping to his feet and taking to the air then would save him. Balthier looked back up, met her eyes with his bright amber gaze, gave her one last warm, affectionate smile. 

“Thank you, Fran.” The pirate sighed subdued. “Of all the adventures and wonders of my life, you were the best.”

The bridge retracted, and Balthier fell.

 

“Fran? Fran!”

Awake instantly, Fran sat up so quickly Penelo had to dash out of the way to avoid being hit. “What is it, a nightmare?”

Fran, sweat-laden and hyperventilating, leaned back on her hands on the bed and let out a weary sigh. “No,” She answered finally. “I only wish it were.”

 

The next ten years blew past in a hypnagogic cloud, a great long never ending dream of traveling Dalmasca’s dunes, drinking to celebrate quests in the tavern, having meals with the Queen. It was a life meant for stories: the two women warriors and lovers, cavorting amongst the rich and poor, the most significant and least, taking on the enemies no one could fight, becoming enveloped in intrigue and wars. 

Assassinations failed at their interference, royalty was born in their presence, and they were honored guests at the courts of dozens of kingdoms. Being knighted by Dalmasca’s queen went quite a ways towards making friends for them in every nation, and everywhere they went their talents were in need. 

Starry nighttime skies were their blankets on long journeys through wilderness; the sun, their guiding light as the mapped their way through uncharted lands. Their conquests could fill books and made great tales as word of mouth spread their glory through Balfonheim to Bhujerba.

But the world spins, and every season makes way for the next to come, the trees shed their leaves to prepare for winter. New youths are born as the previous generations fade into twilight, their lives slowing to a halt, their existences entering past tense.

“So, where to next?” Penelo asked at morning’s dawn, as they began preparing for the day. “We could head north. I heard there’s a new village being built, but the villagers are having trouble keeping the buildings in tack with all the creatures causing havoc amongst the construction. Sounds like they don’t like the idea of humes moving in.” Chuckling, Penelo continued to brush her hair, looking down into the river as she styled it. “There’s just not enough space, the way the cities are now. Archades has been overcrowded for decades, but now even the old city’s full up.” 

Fran, behind her, poured water over the fire and began tucking their cooking ware away. “We’ll need to restock first; we haven’t enough supplies to make the journey northward.”

Nodding thoughtfully, Penelo lowered her brush and began cleaning stray hairs from it. “We can take a detour someplace between here and there. Nalbina isn’t far, not that I’m very… fond…”

Fran kept packing, until Penelo’s odd silence bid her speak. “Penelo?” Fran sat up, concerned. “Are you –“

“I’m fine!” The woman leapt to her feet, walking back to her pack. “Just… lost my train of thought.” 

Fran watched as she knelled and tucked her brush away; the viera glanced back to the river and her keen eyes caught the glint of sunlight against a long, pale grey strand of hair.

 

Three more years passed in the same manner; but the mood of adventurous freedom, of the bright future stretching ahead of them, beckoning them forward, faded to nothingness. They were no longer in the prime of the journey, setting out to see the world; Fran knew the downward spiral was coming.

It took longer to get Penelo up and ready in the morning, and she went to sleep earlier. Wounds which had made Penelo laugh and the woman had insisted she work through them, now had her bedridden for days. Daring feats which had been risky before were downright impossible for the younger woman, and she knew it. She did not take the lead quite so often as before.

“I don’t know why you hang around.” Penelo had spat one day, surprisingly vicious. It did not faze Fran. “You could go anywhere you want and not be hampered by this old fool.”

Fran nudged her arm, tucked their hands together and squeezed. “There is no one else I’d rather have beside me.” No matter how old she grew, those declarations always made the woman blush and smile.

Still, they completed tasks worthy of legend and took down beasts no one else could fell. Chilled mountain ranges were no feat for them to cross, though Penelo could not stand the cold nights the way she used to. Rediscovered treasures were brought to the world by them, (and sold for a profit); Queens and Kings were put into their debts.

Then, one summer’s eve after a long trek through the Cerobi Steppe, the duo stopped in a small village. Penelo collapsed into a tired heap into their motel bed, asleep almost instantly, and kept sleeping until noon the next day. When she awoke and joined Fran for tea on the balcony outside their room, she seemed distant, almost forlorn.

“I think I’d like to stay here.” She admitted quietly. “I won’t hold it against you if you’d like to move on, but… I think my journeying days are over.”

Fran stared, dark eyes impossibly wide, watching as her lover fidgeted and glanced away, clearly flustered. The viera leapt to her feet, crossed the space between them, and knelt to hug Penelo to her tightly.

“Fran! What -!” 

“Thank you,” She mumbled quietly, not bothering to fight the tears burning her eyes. 

“You’re thanking me?”

“Yes!” Fran leaned away, gripping Penelo’s shoulders tight. “I am thanking you for doing what other humes cannot; accepting the limits life has bound you to, and not fearing them past the point of acceptance.” Almost too moved to speak, Fran faltered. “And… if you’ll have me, I will stay.”

Penelo’s fear melted and her face became star-like, golden and full of life. “Yes, yes a thousand times.” It was the younger who embraced Fran next. “I would have you with me forever.”

 

They built a home themselves in that town, made roots, and they were warmly welcomed, their exploits already well known by most of the villagers. Penelo’s stories became renowned, and she was the best friend of every child eager for a tale to be told. Both were asked to assist in the defenses of the town, to help build suitable structures to keep beasts and invaders out, to train soldiers. Penelo was often brought in to consult, while Fran was eventually made head of the guard. 

Years were spent in the lovely peace of a homely village, where the dragons and monsters of legend, the great wars and the countries which warred them, were far removed. Most of the children had never seen a viera until Fran, as most of the villagers were either Humes or Bangaas. It was the definition of quaint, and after many decades of conflict, Fran found it suited her.

Penelo took to it quite well, too. She found her joy in the children; teaching became her passion. There was no formal school, but Penelo put together a room in their home set aside for the kids, where the great tomes and maps they’d collected upon their journeys were stored. She taught farm children who might never see past the borders of their home the capitals of the world’s Empires, the geography of their country, how to spell and read and write, and do so in many languages. Not all the children chose to learn, or wanted to; but there were enough as the years went by to keep Penelo very busy.

Fran was occupied with the safety of the town, which while important was hardly stressful compared to the tasks she’d been given in years past. The village’s worse challenges were natural disasters, livestock being eaten by wolves, or children getting lost in the woods.

 

It was a tranquil life, not as exciting as their youth but no less good or fulfilling for it. They took late mornings lounging in bed, and watched the sun set from their back porch, leaning upon on another in comfortable silence.

The little things changed: Fran paced herself while walking to keep beside Penelo. Illness and weakness befell her lover more often, and Fran always took care of her gladly. Yet nothing dimmed the bond bred in years of struggle, in decades of confidence and companionship. 

Others in the village sometimes questioned their relationship, secretively or openly. The difference in age and ability was often brought before them, in jest or serious questioning. Neither woman was ever bothered by it; they had come to understand what they were to each other years before, and did not suspect or doubt anymore.

 

A surprise kiss upon the forehead startled Fran from her packing. Even without hearing Penelo’s pleased giggles she would have known those lips.

Penelo’s graceful stature had diminished in late years; her thin frame thinner, pale blonde hair silvery grey such as it seemed moonlight had been woven into the locks. She sagged beneath the weight of the years she’d lived, crossed by wrinkles and scars; but a girlish laugh and cheerful smile and Fran saw the sixteen year old standing shyly in the back of the Strahl, watching the world flash by outside.

“About to head out?”

Swinging her bag onto her back, Fran followed Penelo out of the bedroom to the kitchen. “It will be a five day journey, at most. I will return to you before the moon rises in full.” She stopped by the door, warmth filling her as Penelo approached, hands clasped in front of her and a smile on her face.

“Well, be careful.” Reaching out, Fran took Penelo’s hands in hers, lovingly caressing the calloused, wrinkled palms.

“”You know I shall.”

“You’re not allowed to die before me.” Penelo chided jokingly. “If I find out you have, I’ll never forgive you!

“Fran’s reply was equally sardonic. “I’ll be sure to remember.”

 

Some humes tell of omens, of feelings and senses disturbed when loved ones are in danger; of lovers knowing , with a sick realization, the fates of their beloveds; parents driven mad by fear, by a gut clenching truth they felt and, when convinced of its reality, were brought to their knees by the hurt of it.

Fran had no such warning when she returned to the village. Not until her gaze fell upon the ashen faces of the guards at the gate, the eyes of which would not met hers. Need for air would not force Fran to part her lips; she pursed them tight as she leapt from her chocobo.

There were people outside her house, the door opened, and neighbors were trying to stand in front of her, hands held up to hold her back, but none of them were a match for a Veira’s strength. 

Fran tore through the home to her bedroom, their bedroom, threw the door open –

Penelo’s body, limp and deathly pale, lay upon their bed; relaxed, peaceful, and cold.

 

Fran never slept in the house again.

She contacted those she knew would want to know; a list that had been cut short by the passing of years.

Basch fon Rosenburg, loyal and steadfast to the end, had been killed by illness a decade earlier.

Queen Ashelia B’nargin of Dalmasca, beloved sovereign hero and savoir of her country, had died in an airship crash along with her husband. The sorrow lingering in their absence had managed what their marriage could not; uniting the two countries.

Lord Larsa of Arcadia had been assassinated not long after Basch's tragic wound cost him his knightly duties. (The Kingdom, though, did not fall into disarray; as the Lord was succeeded by one of his many children.)

The sky pirate Vaan, well, no one was really sure. His exploits were well known, but had long since become tales of times passed, not modern recollections. Whether he had been killed, lost, or simply vanished, no one could say.

Who was left for there to tell?

 

Fran took Penelo back to Rabanastre.

There was a cemetery in the lower parts of the city, tucked away into an empty warehouse that had once been the impoverished home of Rabanastre’s orphans. Penelo had shown her the place; described how cold it had been at night, how the long grey walls had almost been comforting by how they cut off the rest of the world. It had been her home, before Migelo. When they’d turned it into a cemetery years later, Penelo had been pleased.

“Place that chilly and dank, making it a cemetery is about the only thing you can do with it.” She’d said idly, distracted by polishing her sword. She’d been so beautiful then, the epitome of a Dalmascan warrior, tanned skin dotted with scars and blemishes, youthful face easy to prompt to smile. Fran had loved those smiles.

The owner of the cemetery, once he realized the identity of both the Viera and the body wrapped in blankets in her cart, was more than glad to give a place of honor to Penelo. She was given a raised coffin, a stone vault into which she was to lay for all time.

As he placed her in, the grave keeper moved to take the blankets away. “No!” Fran snapped quickly, startling the hume. “No. Leave them.” So she will not be kept in cold grey silence for all time, with no comfort.

He entombed Penelo then left Fran to her misery.

It was a nice tomb, all things considered. Fran did not really know enough of hume funeral rights and burials to say if it was good or not. Viera had no such things. Their dead were returned to the wood, to become part of the trees and grass, to give life. They were not locked away from the earth in stone, to never rejoined the cycle of life. 

Yet, somehow, Fran could not bring herself to give Penelo over to the cycle, anyhow. 

Footsteps pulled Fran out of her mind, her hand jumping to the sword at her waist. Rabanastre might have been vastly improved, but it was still dangerous in parts of Lowtown. Fran spun round, pulled her dagger, and came face to face with a familiar hume, dressed in royal finery.

“A – Ashe!?”

Ashe chuckled. “Not quite, though I have been told I look much like her.” The stranger continued. “I would not know. She died many years ago.”

Slowly, Fran’s sword hand lowered, and she returned her weapon to it’s sheathe. “Then you are her heir.” 

“Roshellia.” The hume curtsied. “At your service.” She clasped her hands in front of her, and approached Penelo’s tomb, coming to stand beside Fran. “When news of your arrival came to my ears, and what you carried with you, I realized what must’ve happened.” Somber eyes rose to meet Fran’s. “I met very few of my mother’s friends, but when she lived, she told me all sorts of stories about them. I am sorry to hear one of those great heroes is gone.”

“Not one.” Fran mumbled distantly. “All of them save me.”

Silence came over their conversation, and the rows of stones and statues made to seem as if they were forever weeping did not do much to prompt further discussion. Sobriety and pain colored the mood, and Fran found it very difficult to say anything at all.

“It must be hard.” Roshellia finally replied in a quiet, timid voice that did not suite a queen. “To be so long lived, among species whose lives flare and fade away so quickly. I do not think I could be so strong.”

“Strong?” Fran chuckled dryly. “It is not strength. If I were stronger, I could live my life alone, without any company, but I am too weak for that. I need the comfort of companionship, of a bed shared with lovers and a home built with others. I am too lonely to be strong.”

“Well… I’m not in a place to comment, I suppose.” The royal replied. “I have never been alone.” There was a bitterness to that kind of life, too, and Fran knew something of it; of living in a community where solitude was rare and the freedom to make your own choices about your life even rarer.

“What will you do, now that they’re all gone?” Roshellia asked. “Will you return to your homeland?”

“My home?” Fran laughed heartily, too strongly for the situation, a forced laugh that covered up pain. “My home is buried in that tomb in front of you.” Fran waved towards it. “But, no; I will not return to the wood.”

“Even after all this suffering? After living amongst mortals has caused you so much pain?”

“Life is pain.” Fran retorted. “Life is pain, and the change of time, the passing of years. Where I come from, there are no such things. Seasons turn and the wood grows but does not alter itself; the viera do as they have always done, observing the same rites, defending their lands, following their codes. There is no life there, only a mockery of it, as viera are born, raised to complete their duties, and made to complete them again, and again, until the end of time.”

Fran was pacing, the hotness of her tone translating into her body’s movements. “I grew tired of living a life not worth living; and so I cast it aside, and found in all the places I’ve been to the most fabulous things. I have found cities where the turning of one year could bring about marvelous differences. Two years alone did Dalmasca change from a conquered country to a free nation, pushing the tyrants back!” 

“Viera may exist long past the other races of Ivalice, but they will never know the brightness and brilliance of their lives, hidden away in that forest as they are.” Fran declared. “So I suffer by staying here, but I live also. Though we may by the seasons be divided, I will never regret those years with Penelo, and I will never forget them.”

Roshellia stood watching Fran’s passionate explanation with raised eyebrows and a surprised smile, still the demure royal but for the tone of her voice. “I repeat what I said before, and I will elaborate upon it.” She began. “You are a very strong person, Fran once-of-the-Wood; and a marvelous one. You will always be welcome in my country, and my home.” The queen gave one last bow, then turned and sauntered from the cemetery, rejoining the guards awaiting her outside.

 

Fran left Rabanastre.

She traveled; fought and bled, took and saved lives. New cities learned to whisper her name in awe. Friends she made, and lost; lovers she took to bed and bid farewell come morning. Some years, she spent with those she particularly cared for, and once came their passing, moved on.

New lands she explored, new cities she traversed; she saw the sun set from the very farthest west coast upon the continent.

She lived.


End file.
